World of Shareware - Software Farm 2/wosw_2.zip/wosw_2/DATABASE/FA_MAG.ZIP/COPIER.FIC

Text File | 1993-01-11 | 11KB | 231 lines

                         MR. AGRONSON'S NEW COPIER

                              by Jeff Epstein

     For the first time in 23 days--someone had kept count--the office was
filled with a buzz of excitement instead of the grousing of the
discontented.  For 23 days, a single problem had made life miserable for
everyone in the office.

     Now, a presence was in the office that silently offered salvation.
Everyone tried to look involved in work, but their minds were collectively
directed elsewhere, and their eyes wandered furtively across the office to
the corner where three men stood.

     Two of the men were the service technicians from Saturn Business
Systems, Inc. They were installing--at long last--a new copier. The other
man was William T. Agronson, to whom the men were explaining the machine.

     Agronson was president of the small company, Agronson Corporation. A
tall, imposing figure with a bald head and steely gray eyes, he enjoyed
being the boss more than any other part of his job. He had rarely used the
ancient rattler now being taken away. He hadn't liked being around when it
broke down, which was often. But by issuing orders through Margie, or
whoever else was around, Agronson had someone to blame when problems
occurred.

     Thus, Agronson had had no empathy when Margie, as well as several
others, had attempted to explain why the copier wasn't working.

     The ancient machine seemed to endlessly drink toner, and was going on
its fourth drum. Usually the stop-and-go routine lasted a week, until
service came to fix it; but by this time the office staffers were cleaning
and checking the machine themselves every day, and even then it only spit
out about five decent copies until it acted up again.

     At the end of two weeks, Agronson had exploded when a report couldn't
get copied. The tirade had shattered the office routine, but at least it
had led to today, the twenty-third day since the last service visit, being
the last for the old monstrosity and Day One of the New Copier.

     The new machine was state of the art. Agronson had figured that if he
had to get a new machine, he might as well get the best. Saturn Model 2000
enlarged, reduced, printed in four colors, and played music if you forgot
your original.  The control panel looked like it belonged on the space
shuttle.

     They now all stood huddled around as Agronson barked out instructions
on how to use the machine. Agronson barked louder when one of the Saturn
technicians issued a correction. No matter. They would read the manual and
figure out the right way later.

     "And now," Agronson finished, "maybe I can get some work done around
here.  I would suggest you do the same!"  So saying, he turned and marched
into his office.  The Saturn men departed.

     "Ye gods, you'd think he built the damn machine himself," said
Lucille, the newest typist.

     "What the hell," said Margie. "The important thing is we finally have
a new copier. Let's try it out!"

     Someone grabbed a sales report and soon quite a few people were
gathered around as they fumbled with the sleek machine.

     From the back of the room came a familiar voice: "When I was a lad in
Dublin, my sainted mother taught me..." Johnny, with his twinkling eyes and
familiar mop of grey hair, slowly worked his way into the room behind his
giant pushbroom. "What's all this, then?" he inquired.

     "Oh, Johnny, we finally got a new copier. Look!" said Margie.

     But Johnny took one look and shook his head in disdain. "Well, I hope
ye can figure the thing out."  He pushed the broom down the hallway and
continued his daily tune. "When I was a lad in Dublin...."

     It took a few minutes to get the hang of the new copier, as lights
flashed and beepers beeped; but it did, eventually, spit out a perfect
photocopy at the end.

     After a couple of days, working the machine didn't seem quite as
formidable.  The only person in the company who wasn't happy with the new
copier was Agronson. He couldn't understand why, when he unknowingly pushed
the wrong button, his regular size letter got reduced to the size of a
postcard.

     Agronson would then slam his fist down on the machine and issue a few
choice words at it.

     The funny thing was that the machine would then respond with a
synthesized voice: "Stop abusing me!" It was quite startling at first, and
even Agronson seemed taken aback. But he quickly learned that the voice was
part of the machine's fail-safe circuitry.

     The feature, however, did not change Agronson's behavior. Inevitably,
he would try to work the copier, make a mistake, slam down his fist, and
the copier would say: "Stop abusing me!" He would then curse at the copier,
yell at someone to do his bidding, and storm into his office.

     "There he goes again," Margie said under her breath as she watched the
histrionics once from across the room.

     "Why does he act like that?" asked Lucille.

     "Oh, you're still new here; he's always like that," Margie explained.
"Don't let it bother you.  He's just a frustrated old grouch."

     "I feel sorry for him," said Lucille. "Why doesn't somebody help him?"
This brought snickers from the rest of the group.

     "Aw, honey, he's the last person you should feel sorry for," Hazel
clucked.

     "Well, I do," said Lucille. "And I'm tired of getting nervous every
time he walks in here.  I'm going to do something." She started to get up
from her desk.

     "No! Lucille, sit down. You don't understand," Margie hissed. But
Lucille was already timidly walking across the room towards the steaming
Agronson.

     Margie, Hazel, and the others stared in fascination as the girl flashed
her brightest smile and attempted to politely explain the machine.  Agronson
just stared at her, and it seemed for a moment that Lucille was going to
pull it off. But just then Agronson banged his fist down on the machine and
lashed out so the whole office could hear.

     "Young lady, how dare you tell me how to operate this copier! I bought
this damn copier!  And who the hell are you, anyway?"

     "Oh, I-I, my name's Lucille, and I was just trying--"

     "Shut up!  Do you have any idea how much this machine cost me? And the
damn thing doesn't work right!" Agronson fumed, his eyes shooting daggers
at Lucille.

     "I know, I mean, I think you'll find if you just push this --"

     "Dammit girl, didn't you hear me? This machine is a pile of junk and
if you're
too stupid to know that, you don't belong here either.  Get out!"

     "Mr. Agronson, all I'm --"

     "You're fired!" Agronson exploded, shoving Lucille roughly away.  "Get
out!  Get out now and don't come back!"  Lucille burst into tears, and
covering her face with her hands, ran out of the office as fast as she
could.

     The office sat in stunned silence.  Agronson wheeled on them.

     "Anyone else have any comments?"

     The horrified silence continued.  Agronson turned and marched back to
his office without a hint of remorse.

     Lucille never came back. And the next day, besides the burning
memories, the only legacy of the episode was the copier itself, which did
begin to misfire under Agronson's abuse. It worked fine for Margie, for
Hazel, for anyone. But when Agronson tried to use it, there was usually
a paper jam or a toner problem.

     Agronson shouted at someone to fix it, and went back to his office. But
as soon as Margie gently touched the reset button, the machine purred into
life and made a perfect copy.

     "How comes it works fine for us, but not for Agronson?" Hazel wondered.

     "It's a smart machine," Margie smirked. Everyone cracked up.

     It was 5:17 p.m. that day when Agronson again needed to use the
machine.  He walked into the now-empty office and lifted the lid on the
copier.  He placed the sheet on the glass, closed the lid, and pushed the
PRINT button.

     "You'd better work this time," he growled at the machine.  It started
up and abruptly stopped. It beeped and a red sign flashed "PAPER JAM".

     Agronson slammed his fist down on the copier. "Stop abusing me!" it
responded mechanically. Agronson started to tell someone to do the copying
for him, but he turned around and realized he was alone in the office.  The
room was filled with quiet.

     Muttering to himself, Agronson turned off the power and yanked out the
paper cassette. He looked inside to find the crumpled paper in the drum, but
couldn't see anything wrong.

     He turned the machine back on, and waited what seemed like ages while
it warmed up. Finally, the "READY" light came on, and he tried again.  Once
more, the copier abruptly stopped in mid-cycle and the "PAPER JAM" light
came on.

     Again, Agronson angrily removed the paper cassette and looked inside.
There was still nothing visible. He reached inside. Suddenly, the copier
noisily jumped to life.The paper intake seized on Agronson's fingers.
Agronson yelped and tried to remove his hand. But he couldn't get it out.
The copier held on, rumbling and bucking, its high-pitched whine blending
with Agronson's scream as it drew his arm inside. But nobody heard him, for
it was quiet outside in the business district.

     The area stayed quiet and deserted until 6:30 a.m. the next day,
when Johnny arrived to do his early-morning cleaning routine. He had done
it every day for six years, but today he was astonished to find Mr.
Agronson's car in the parking lot. The trusty custodian had always been the
first one in the building. Mr. Agronson usually arrived at 8 a.m. sharp.

     Johnny walked around to Agronson's office, which was open. Lights were
on, and Mr. Agronson had clearly been working at his desk. But the man
himself was nowhere to be found. Clearly, no one else had arrived yet.

     Whatever had happened, Johnny figured there wasn't much he could do.
And Mr. Agronson always insisted on a tidy office. So Johnny simply carried
on as usual, and began his regular cleaning routine.

     He began sweeping up in his usual fashion, singing under his breath,
"When I was a lad in Dublin, my sainted mother taught me..."

     Johnny paused, noticing a tiny trickle of red fluid running down one
corner of the copier. "Slobs!" he cackled. "Can't even put down ye ketchup
'n fries on ye lunch hour, and workin' too!" He wiped the red stain away
with cleaning fluid, and stooped despite the strain of an old back injury
to retrieve a stray piece of paper lying face down near the copier. He
crumpled it up and tossed it into his trash bag without looking at it. He
straightened his creaking back, and slowly continued sweeping, his voice
echoing off the walls of the long corridor:

     "When I was a lad in Dublin, my sainted mother taught me, that I
should always treat others, as I would have 'em treat me!"
_______________________________________________________________________
Copyright 1987 by Jeffrey H. Epstein